


fantastic beast and how to save him

by blooshboy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, he ends up meeting credence, so newt comes to nyc but instead of meeting precious angels goldstein sisters and jacob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooshboy/pseuds/blooshboy
Summary: Newt is in the bad part of town trying to rescue the saddest boy he's ever met from the cruelest man he's ever seen.





	1. one

###

 

 

As soon as Newt lands in New York City, he feels an inexplicable need to leave. Perhaps it's the booming witch hunt speech that greets him right off the ships or maybe it's the gloomy air about the city. Each newspaper has some strange disaster as a headline and New doesn't want to get involved in the least. He's here for a specific mission so he keeps his head down and trying not to bump into too many Second Salemers on his way. Newt is used to the muddy, rainy ambience of London, but New York City seems suffocating. 

It's just his luck that he rounds a corner and runs smack into a boy with an armful of pamphlets Newt immediately recognizes. He considers waving his wand and avoiding the situation, but the boy is cowering, muted and insincere apologies on his lips and hands shaking as he bends down the pick the pamphlets up. He hasn't even looked at Newt, as if he's used to this. As if maybe he thinks Newt did it on purpose. His heart clenches at the thought and he bends down as well, picking up the remaining pamphlets and holding them out to the boy. 

From the way he's bent over, Newt can barely make out full lips and a sharp nose (and an unfortunate haircut), and once he holds out the pamphlets, the boy jerks back but finally looks up and Newt is struck. He's stared into the eyes of countless wounded, hunted animals, but none of them compare to this boy and his big, black eyes - filled with an ancient resolution to pain. He looks like he can't tell if Newt is going to smack him across the face with the pamphlets or snatch them away as soon as the boy reaches for them. 

As slowly as he can, Newt places the pamphlets next to the boy's bent knees and the boy's gaze follows, widening in panic. Newt is about to reassure him that he's not going to do anything when the boy springs up and looks down at the dirty knees of his gray slacks. He starts smacking at them, trying to clean them, but it's a lost cause. Newt watches his little face crumble at the realization and his mother's voice distantly rings in his head -  _Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, if you bring another stray into this house!_

Despite himself, Newt says, "I have a solution to that, if you don't mind?"

The boy looks down at him - all wrecked and pitch black eyes - but doesn't flee so Newt takes that for what it is. He's seen it with countless magical creatures. The ones used to pain are curiously susceptible to trusting strangers - a universal need to hope against hope. 

"Maybe we can go somewhere less crowded, though," he says with a wide smile, straightening up and not forgetting the pick up and pocket the pamphlets. The boy keeps his head down as Newt begins to walk and leads them to a partially secluded alley filled with wooden crates. He places his briefcase on one of them, making sure to angle it away from the boy even though the boy seems infinitely more interesting in his own shoes, and rummages through to find a simple bottle of water and a handkerchief. He dabs the water onto the handkerchief and mumbles a spell under his breath. 

"Could you sit down, perhaps?" he urges softly but the boy startles regardless. He looks around and finally settles rigidly on one of the crates, knees pressed together and back hunched. Hands folded neatly in his lap like a habit, like someone drove that position into his head. Newt tries incredibly hard not to shove the boy into his suitcase along with his other wounded creatures. He really must do something about this inconvenient maternal instinct. 

He wipes the handkerchief as gently as he can once and twice over the boy's knees, watches those black eyes widen as the dirt disappears. There's the slightest smile on his lips but he seems to reign it in - like a habit.

"There," he says with a flourish, "All better."

The boy stands up and seem to muster up enough courage to look somewhere around Newt's throat. 

"Where are you from, Sir? You don't sound like you're from here," the boy says, sounding surprisingly older than Newt would have guessed. 

"London," he answers, "It's a dreadful place but I'm beginning to think maybe not as dreadful as New York City," he takes out the pamphlets from his pocket and holds them out for the boy, "A witch hunt isn't exactly what I'd hoped to be greeted with."

"London," the boy echoes, almost to himself, and then a little clearer, he asks, "What brings you here?"

"On a hunt," he says with what he hopes is a charming smile but seems to fall a little flat with the boy. Newt usually has trouble looking people in the eyes, but this boy has him beat on that, now transfixed by Newt's vest. Strangely, it helps Newt feel more comfortable and confident, his words less of a rush and more of the gentle lull they are with his animals.

"For what?" the boy whispers and it's really starting to become apparent the boy must not have many positive interactions with strangers because he seems highly reserved but has the questions bubbling out of him as if curiosity outweighs terror.

"An animal. I've been told I could find it in America and the ships stop in New York City so consequently, here I am. Rather boring stuff, I assure you."

"What's the thing you used to make the dirt stains go away?" the boy asks, eyes finally braving Newt's jaw. 

"Well-"

"Are you a witch?" the boy asks in a rush, knuckles white from the way he's holding his share of the pamphlets. Newt's heart sort of sinks dully at the accusation, the sure way the boy is asking, and he's about to slip his wand out for an escape when the boy hastens to add, "I won't tell anyone. I just. Mr. Graves does magic like that - like you did with the dirt stains."

Newt relaxes a fraction, but is filled with an influx of questions. 

"Why are you handing these out?"

The boy flinches a little, but he isn't cowering like he was and there's even a glimmer of a smile on his face. 

"My Ma," he starts and then pauses as if that's the whole answer - sucking in a deep breath when Newt keeps looking at him, "Have you heard of the New Salem Philanthropic Society?" continuing at Newt's pause, "My Ma runs it. I have to hand these out before the sun goes down."

His eyes widen as he processes his own words and he glances around himself as if suddenly realizing what he's doing and where. With rushed apologies, he's scrambling out of the alley in jerky but precise movements, almost like someone's trained him even on how to run. It leaves a queasy feeling in Newt's stomach and he stands in the alley for a while, clenching his fist around his wand to stop himself from bringing the boy back and interrogating him. A boy who knows magic but doesn't use it and instead passing out fliers calling for a mass execution of witches. A curious creature with wounds he carries in his eyes almost brazenly. A young man with delicate features and faint scars on his palms. 

Shaking his head, he walks out of the alley and tries to forget about the boy - though pocketing the pamphlets he'd left behind isn't helping. Newt's only in New York City for a stopover before continuing his quest of documenting magical creatures. He'll take the first train tomorrow morning and never come back to this dreadful city again.

 

The hotel Newt is staying at for the night is strangely characteristic, bright blue walls with golden furnishing. It's out of place in a mostly gray toned city and Newt feels comfortable in it.  The concierge is a slightly boring but competent twenty-something year old who's either reading the newspaper or trying to figure out his radio. The housekeepers are a vivacious bunch of giggly girls who think he's handsome and has a very funny accent. They raise their eyebrows at his bright clothes, but are generally sweet and helpful. One of them suggests a shop where he can buy a sturdier suitcase than the one he's carrying, and Newt promises to check it out if only for the sake of how earnest she seems. 

Unable to help himself, he asks one of them about the New Salem Philanthropic Society as he's waiting in the lounge for his receipt. The concierge pauses briefly in his scribbling and one of the housekeeps - a bubbly one with thick spectacles - pipes up in a thick Queens accent.

"They call themselves Second Salemers. Want everyone going on witch hunts and all," she explains with wide eyes, "Mary Lou Barebone leads 'em with her adopted children. A real number, that woman."

She shudders and Newt tries not to think of the boy stuck under that woman's thumb. 

"Children?" he prompts.

"Yeah, three of 'em," she says, scrunching up her face as she tries to remember, "Chastity's the oldest one and I think the little girl is Modesty. The boy is the middle one. Credence, I think. Real quiet, all of them."

"With a mother like that, I can imagine," Newt says, almost to himself, and he's snapped out of his thoughts as the concierge clears his throat. He accepts the receipt with a smile and bids farewell to the girls as he heads for his room. He tries not to think too much about Credence and the saddest pair of eyes he's ever seen. 

 

At midnight, he slips into his suitcase and out of the kitchen he's greeted by a rather put out niffler who is momentarily distracted by the twinkle of Newt's spoon before realizing it's not, in fact, anything of value. Rolling his eyes fondly, Newt mixes a mixture of herbs in a bowl and feeds the grouchy creature. After that, he checks up on some of the hatchlings and eventually makes his way to Pickett and the rest of the bowtruckles. As anticipated, Pickett is glumly clinging to a solitary branch. 

"Oh, Pickett, what did they do now?"

The little green creature turns his head away from Newt. The bowtruckles seem quite amused by his dramatics so Newt has no choice but the gently urge Pickett into his palm. The creature slumps into his hand with all the flare of a starlet and Newt tucks him into his coat. He makes the rest of his rounds to check on his animals with Pickett in a decidedly better mood and peeking out of his collar. 

As he turns in for the night, he makes sure none of the animals had a chance to come with him through the suitcase - apart from the clingly bowtruckle - and locks it shut behind him, dragged a pot full of almost-dead flowers against the broken buckle. 

 

The next morning, he wakes up with the excitement of getting out of the city and packs in a rush to make sure he's early for his train. The lounge is empty save for the concierge and Newt feels just a little sad to leave the hotel's bright colors and step into gray streets. He decides to stop at the market to load up bread and sweets for the trip. He's honestly forgotten all about the sad boy as he's walking through the bustling streets and preoccupied with a niffler escape attempt that greeted him a few minutes prior to leaving the hotel. He's meticulously glancing down at his suitcase and avoiding eye-contact with every person who passes him when he just happens to glance to the side and is stopped in his tracks.

It's the boy. Unmistakable with his slumped shoulders and prim clothes, hands clenched into fists at his side. There's also a man there, his back to Newt. They're facing each other in an alley and there's an ominous air to them. The man is gesturing slightly, all controlled motions, and when he reaches out the cup the boy's cheek, Newt's stomach clenches. 

There's something off about the whole thing, but the boy is relaxing immediately, chasing the touch. Newt is about to swallow every instinct he has and keep walking when the boy happens to look up and past the man's shoulder and right at Newt. 

The man seems to notice the change in concentration and turns to follow the boy's gaze. Clean-cut and handsome, he's unassuming at first until his eyes narrow and his hand hovers precariously around his hip as if he's about to pull out a wand. It's a stance Newt has seen countless times and it's an aggressive one. Combative in it's nature. Newt is pretty sure he's about to get a dose of _Obliviate_ right to his chest so he puts on his most harmless smile and waves. The man frowns slightly and turns back to the boy. Whatever he says or asks, the boy is shaking his head and the man is seemingly appeased. 

It's a strange exchange because for all the man's grace and poise and obvious advantage of magic (maybe this is Mr. Graves), the boy seems to have some sort of control over the situation. Newt is shoved slightly from behind as someone moves around him on the street and he looks away from the alley to apologize. When he looks back, the man is gone and the boy is leaning against the wall with his face in his hands. Newt tries to force himself to keep walking but then the boy seems to crumble completely, sliding down the wall and curling into himself, face pressing into bent knees and arms coming around them. 

With a sigh, he turns towards the alley. 

 _Newton Artemis Fido Scamander_ , he warns himself, _if you bring another stray into your suitcase of a house_.

It's useless, of course, because before he knows it, he's standing at the mouth of the alley. The boy is oblivious to his presence as he suddenly looks up from his knees and fishes out something from his pocket. It's a piece of paper ripped in two that he irons down with his hands, fitting them together and placing them on his knees. He wipes his face and sniffles quietly, wound tight even in this state. His face seems to crumble a little at the hopelessness of the paper and Newt can't help walking closer.

The boy finally glances to his side and Newt offers him a smile.

"I have a solution to that. If you don't mind."

 

 

+//+


	2. two

###

 

 

Credence is startled and stands up, sort of staggering back against the wall and crumbling the papers in tight fists as he does so. His eyes are wide and wet, vividly bright, but they lower immediately and follow the slump of the boy's shoulders. It feels strange to give the boy a name when Newt hasn't been introduced to as such, so he decides to get the formalities out of the way - since he's clearly intent on getting involved in whatever _this_ is. 

"I'm Newt Scamander," he says with a chuckle that feels too-loud and a rather clumsy point at the boy's fists, "And, I _can_ fix that."

The boy is already pale in the sharp black clothes but seems to pale further at the mention of the paper. He looks deeply conflicted and then finally brings his hands up, fists opening and palms up. Newt glances briefly out the alley before pulling out his wand and murmuring a simple spell that has the papers unfolding and melding into one again as it falls into Newt's free hand. The boy seems riveted, eyes huge and that faint glimmer of a smile again. It brings a certain life to the boy's bleak expression and Newt adds a dramatic flair to it just for effect. The open use of magic seems to set the boy at ease enough to actually look at Newt in the eyes.

"Credence," he says, "Barebone."

Newt smiles and glances down at the paper. Bold black letters inform him of the grave need for a second Salem and there's a mess of hateful rhetoric topped with an image of two hands breaking a wand. He laughs lightly as he hands the paper to Credence, who is flushed slightly - perhaps from embarrassment at a wizard having seen it. 

"This is why I've always said the Americans should really build better relationships with the muggles. Many Salems could be avoiding with a simple, open communication," he says, the words rushed out in a brief moment of passion that startles the boy. Newt takes in a deep breath and puts on a smile previously reserved for newborn mooncalf. "How did you come to know about magic?"

Credence fiddles with the paper and softly answers, "Ma knows about it, Mr. Scamander. She says it's wicked. A sin," he's flushed a deeper red now, borrowing into himself, "But, Mr. Graves says it's not. He can teach me, too, he said. He's never done that before, though" - a small frown - "Some people have ripped the pamphlets before but he's never done that" - a guilty look washes over at a startling pace - "He's fixed my wounds, though."

The boy is incredibly expressive, heart on his sleeve, and Newt can tell when he realizes he's said something he shouldn't have. And, Newt knows all about flight risks. So, he doesn't push on 'wounds' and instead changes the topic.

"Will you be alright getting home or would like me to walk with you?"

Credence shakes his head and fidgets with the hem of his coat, saying, "I'm already a little late so I must hurry. Thank you, Mr. Scamander."

With a odd jerk of his body, he's walking out of the alley. Newt keeps an eye on him, following him out but staying behind a dozen steps, and it's just to make sure the boy is at least safe for now - under his nose. But, much like the pasts of his animals, Credence seems intent on tragedy. He's got his chin pressed into his chest and naturally, he knocks into someone - the stranger's shoulder sending the boy staggering back. The stranger steadies himself, hand on his trendy black hat, and glares at Credence, eyes dripping with so much disregard and disdain it's startling. Newt expects that to be the end of it, but the stranger's lips curl up cruelly and he's grabbing Credence by the collar, right by the knot of his thin tie, and yanking him in close. He's hissing something to Credence that has the stranger's companion laying a hand on his shoulder.

The stranger has shiny blonde hair set perfect with the hat on top and not a hair is out of place as he spews what looks like utter venom at Credence, shaking the boy slightly at certain points. Newt can hardly stand the soft way Credence lets himself be moved. 

In an another disregard of his mother's wishes, Newt is arriving at the scene and with a bright smile, muttering an enchantment that has the stranger's angry expression clearing. 

"There we go," he ushers lightly, as the stranger and his companion move blankly away, "Out with the old," an attempt at charming as he turns to Credence, "And, in with the new."

Credence is transfixed by the change and moved enough to actually look into Newt's eyes, an expression of gratitude and wonder on his delicate features. And, then, like a spell, he's shutting down and looking away, strangely wary of every passerby. 

"You mustn't make a habit of that, Mr. Scamander," he whispers, voice nearly muffled by the noises of the city. 

"Of what?" Newt inquires softly.

"Rescuing me."

Newt's heart clenches so suddenly and painfully, he feels a little out of breath, but he manages to muster up a smile and brush off the deep anguish behind Credence's tone. 

"I've spent most of my life rescuing creatures that don't think they deserve it," he says, trying to remain flippant, and Credence finally shakes out of his despair enough to faintly smile.

"Thank you. I have to," he says, trailing off and vaguely pointing towards the street. Newt doesn't compel him to finish his sentence and instead tries to be gracious while copying Credence's motion. The boy bows his head slightly and risks another look into Newt's eyes before moving down the street. He stays hunched the whole time Newt has his eye on him, as if trying to be a slip of a thing floating past living people. That hunch is the final strike and with a sigh, he's gripping his suitcase tight and following Credence into gradually darker and quieter streets.

 

It's almost natural that Credence walks up to a dreadful, gray house in a secluded part of the city. A minute ago, Newt had muttered a spell that muted his footsteps, but Credence still looks on alert as he pauses in front of the door. Then, Newt realizes he's possibly just dreading going inside. Credence closes his hand over the door knob and almost painfully slow, turns it. He opens the door just as slow and slips inside as quiet as ever. Newt hadn't exactly planned out his courses of action so for a few minutes, he's simply stuck watching the house. Suddenly, the light turns on in the lower floor but Newt can't make out any shadows. 

With a suffering sigh aimed at himself, Newt finally moves closer to the house and right up to the window. There are thick curtains draped around it but he can see through a little slit. Unreasonably familiar with a boy he's known for two days, Newt immediately zeroes in on Credence with his hands held out - palms up. A stern woman is glaring at him with so much hatred, it prickles even Newt's sentiments. Then, a quick movement and a belt or a whip is coming down hard on Credence's palms. 

The boy doesn't move, but Newt can make out his flinch even from minimal vision. 

Whatever had compelled Newt to follow Credence here, it manifests from a slightly burdened conscious into a mission. With a determination, he lifts his wand out of his pocket and mutters an enchantment that puts the stern woman to a temporary sleep and paralysis, slumping softly to her knees and then falling sideways. Credence seems startled and then glances at his hands. Newt wonders if the boy thinks he's done it himself. The thought barely catches some fleeting memory from Newt's past before he's brought back to reality with a lurch as Credence also falls to his knees and shakes the woman. He seems terrified and deeply concerned - the sort of tragic allegiance abused creatures form with their perpetrators. 

Newt moves quickly, leaving the window and moving to the door. When he enters and makes wild, estimated turns to find the room, Credence is exactly how he'd looked from the window. 

"Ma, I'm sorry, please," he's muttering, inconsolable and unaware of Newt's presence until Newt is kneeling besides him - suitcase clattering against the wood floor where he momentarily drops it. Bright eyes turn to him without the slightest shock as if already used to Newt just showing up whenever there's trouble. 

"It's just a temporary spell," Newt comforts and holds his hand out. Credence sniffles slightly but eventually moves to put one hand in Newt's, palm up. There are bright red welts on the delicate thing and Newt softly whispers a spell that has the tears crudely stitched and healed. He does the same the other hand and then stands up. He reaches for the suitcase and holds out his hand once more, for a different purpose. This time, when Credence puts his hand in Newt's, it's palm down and he lets himself be pulled upright. The trust in it warms Newt's heart while also burdening him with a heavier sense of responsibility. 

"Is there something you absolutely require to make travel comfortable?"

"Travel?" Credence echoes softly, frowning.

"You certainly don't expect me to let you stay here after what I've seen? If you know of magic but were never asked to attend a school, I suspect this woman had something to do with it. I can take you to the school or find help or _something_. Anything better than this," Newt says, growing heated the longer Credence stares at him blankly, "What do you need to pack?"

Credence simply blinks.

"I can't leave, Mr. Scamander," he says slowly, "Modesty will be alone and Ma will-"

He censors himself abruptly, looking down at the unconscious woman with something upsettingly like loyalty, and then he gives Newt a sad, little smile. The air is heavy between them - both of them as still as the woman as they appraise each other - and Newt is itching to stun the boy and just take him. Drop him at Professor Dumbledore's doorsteps and hope for a miracle. Credence looks back at his adoptive mother and asks, "How long will she stay like this?"

Newt drags his eyes over Credence's features, trying to get a read on his emotions, and says, "About an hour or so. It's only a mild spell though I'm afraid I want to inflict more damage seeing what she's done to you," in a rush, "I'm not a violent man, I assure you, Credence, but how can someone treat a child like this? It's barbaric."

Credence doesn't come to her defense but he doesn't offer agreement either. He simply stares at the prone form and the air feels heavy again. Newt doesn't know how he's going to leave the country with the dreadful thought of Mary Lou Barebone sitting heavily on his chest, the images of a broken Credence constricted into a lump in his throat. On impulse, Newt blurts out, "If you have time to spare, perhaps you'd like to see some magical creatures?"

The flicker of a smile on the boy's face seems to brighten every gray corner of New York City.

 

As soon as Newt starts walking down the stairs, Credence's eyes widen and glow with a childlike, infectious wonder. Newt motions for him to follow and travels the whole way into the suitcase, crashing into a teapot in his haste to make sure Credence is coming down as well. The clatter startles the boy and he slips on his last few steps, falling rather gracelessly into Newt's arms - fingers clutched tight around the stairs' wooden legs. Newt is quick to let go but makes sure Credence has his footing properly first. There are two endearing pink spots on the boy's face that Newt makes a point to not notice. 

"It's a bit of a mess," he says with a smile, making flustered attempts at righting a few cups of antidotes on the counter. Credence is still hunched by the stairs but his eyes are moving wildly, taking in everything he can from his position, and he even seems fascinated by spoon stirring an experimental concoction by itself. "That's an extract from a Murtlap. It can help with cuts. I'm hoping that with a few tricks, it'll even smooth down scars."

Credence releases his grip from the stairs and absently clasps his hands together - rubbing a thumb against his palm. Newt's smile freezes a little at the gesture and he quickly shakes out of it to urge the boy out of the little room in distraction. He hesitantly follows Newt deeper into the space and is a bundle of nerves as colorful creatures whiz by him. It takes a few agonizing minutes but Credence finally loosens up enough to hesitantly approach a flock of mooncalves. One of the younger ones sort of butts his head against Credence's leg and it sparks an immediate smile - pure and wide in its joy and causing a phantom _thud_ in Newt's chest.

 

 

+//+


End file.
